


How They Begin

by fineandwittie



Series: The Timeline of a Love Story [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, And I couldn't help myself, And I just saw it for a 3rd time, Anxiety Attacks, Because everyone basically has to do one, Character Development, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon can see the horror in Illya’s eyes when he accidentally activated Uncle Rudi’s chair and understands what Napoleon had been suffering in the half hour it took for him to arrive at the compound. It’s part apology for taking so long, for allowing this to happen at all, for trusting Gaby. It’s part desperation, to know that Napoleon has not suffer permanent damage for it. And there is something else lurking there, deep in his eyes. Something that looks remarkably like pain and remarkably like devotion. Napoleon doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to hope, because Illya Kuryakin is the best agent of the KGB, and that? That is certainly not the Russian way. And even if it was, he’s going to be disappearing back behind the Iron Curtain when this mission is done and Napoleon is not ready for that kind of pain. He’s hurting enough as it is. </p><p>Or the story of how they began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How They Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. I rewatched the movie today and I couldn't help it.

Napoleon can see the horror in Illya’s eyes when he accidentally activates Uncle Rudi’s chair and understands what Napoleon had been suffering in the half hour it took for him to arrive at the compound. It’s part apology for taking so long, for allowing this to happen at all, for trusting Gaby. It’s part desperation, to know that Napoleon has not suffered permanent damage for it. And there is something else lurking there, deep in his eyes. Something that looks remarkably like pain and remarkably like devotion. Napoleon doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to hope, because Illya Kuryakin is the best agent of the KGB, and that? That is certainly not the Russian way. And even if it was, he’s going to be disappearing back behind the Iron Curtain when this mission is done and Napoleon is not ready for that kind of pain. He’s hurting enough as it is. 

He looks back at Illya, unwavering and eyes full of warning. He is fine. He will be fine. They have more important things to worry about.

Illya twitches slightly and looks away, acknowledging this.

Later, when Gaby is a British Agent and they blow up Victoria, Napoleon hears Illya destroy the hotel room below his. That’s right, he thinks, Gaby is leaving. But then Illya turns up in his room, looking empty and angry and more betrayed than Napoleon’s ever seen him. He reaches into his coat for a gun and Napoleon…he makes a split second decision. To trust. To play his hand early and hope for the best. 

He’s always been a terrible gambler. He’s not patient enough and he cheats.

Illya looks like he’s had his world pulled out from under him, like everything he’s ever been told was a lie and all he knows now is Napoleon. He stares and stares.

“What do we do then? I will not kill you, Cowboy. And I cannot go back without that disk.”

“You can’t take it back to Russia, Peril. But…I’m not sure I want the US to have it either…”

Illya frowns. “You are not…loyal to your country?”

Napoleon shrugs. “I’m American. One of our defining traits is…freedom of thought, I suppose you’d call it. I don’t believe that taking that disc back to Sanders is in the best interest of my country. Or the world at large really. The arms race…needs to end, but not with a victor or else, I think the world will lose. Does that make sense?”

Illya blinks and appears to consider this. He blinks again and there is acceptance in it. He agrees. Won’t say it. Won’t betray Mother Russia like that. Napoleon regrets his comments about Illya’s mother. He regrets many things.

Mostly, he regrets that they will burn this disk, share a drink, and never see each other again.

Except how apparently, they will.

Napoleon can’t bare to look at anyone once Waverly leaves. Illya seems serene and Gaby is looking around like a lost little duck, her giant glasses obscuring most of her face.

Napoleon wants to take them and crush them under his heel. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and pitch her over the balcony because he doesn’t care that she is a British agent, it’s because of her that his chest aches and his fingers are stiff and he can feel his pulse in his neck sometimes, beating too fast. It’s because of her that he was distracted from Alexander’s approach and ended up with a swollen wrist and a headache that still lingers and a hundred other pains that will take days or weeks to fade. He hates her and he resents that she’s still here and he admires her because he never even suspected a thing. He’s jealous of her, of the way that Illya’s eyes track her as she moves and the almost-kiss they’d had while she was standing on the table.

He breaths. He can do this. He will do this. 

Illya, perhaps, cannot. “You apologized to me, Chop Shop Girl, but I am not one who deserves apology.”

Gaby turns to him and the furrow of her brow is just visible over the glasses. Napoleon turns toward the Russian. It’s his turn to stare. Maybe if he stares hard enough, he can make Illya shut up.

“What?”

“I was not tied to chair and electrocuted by your Uncle because of your treachery. You should not have apologized to me.”

Gaby turns slowly to Napoleon, but he’s already facing away. Looking out over the city, fingers white-knuckle-tight against the railing. His breathing is even, measured, unnaturally precise.

He is in control.

“Napoleon?”

He flinches. Perhaps not.

“No one calls me that. Just go with Solo.”

Gaby pauses. He can’t see her eyes. Even if he were turned to her they’d be hidden. He doesn’t care to look anyway.

“Fine, Solo then. Is Illya telling the truth? How are you…What?”

Napoleon inhales deeply. “Your Uncle Rudi was The Fifth Horseman, the horror doctor of the concentration camps. He specialized in torture of all sorts, but he seemed to favor the classics. Electrical chair, pliers, that sort of thing. He hadn’t yet moved on from the electrocution when Illya found me.”

He can actually hear Gaby swallow. There is a pause. He will not fill it. Illya barely ever fills silences. Gaby can’t seem to bring herself to speak.

Finally, “How long?”

Napoleon turns on her, lips curled back in a fierce smile. She’s taken her glasses off. He can see her eyes. “How long? You want to know how long your uncle pumped electricity into me, through the feet and fingers? How long he electrocuted me because of your betrayal? How long I was tortured because, with no warning, you handed me to Victoria after I’d spend the night before whoring myself out to her to keep our covers in tact? Long enough. Or are you asking how long the side effects will last? How long will my heart beat be irregular? How long will I have headaches, that I suspect will eventually resolve into migraines? How long will I have muscle tremors? Is that what you’re asking?”

She is crying when he finally stops talking. His chest is heaving and his heart is racing in a way that is neither natural nor comfortable. Illya steps over to him and places a hand on his chest, frowning. Napoleon can’t focus. Doesn’t know what Illya’s closed-off expression is indicating, what he should be reading from it.

His vision is greying around the edges. He might be sick. It’s all utterly humiliating.

“Easy, Cowboy. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He is speaking Russian. His voice was low and steady. Napoleon focuses on it, the quiet rumble of it. He taught himself Russian and does not speak it often, so comprehension takes a split second longer than it should. A large hand crawls up his neck and finds his pulse point. “You will be fine. Just breathe. Breathe with me.” 

When he finally manages to slow his heart and his breathing, Gaby is as far from him as she can get, looking utterly destroyed. Illya stands solidly next to him, warm and tense.

“I think I might be sick.” It’s contemplative, calm. A lie.

Illya nods and slips the hand on Napoleon’s pulse point around to rub at his back. Napoleon takes a brief moment to wonder at Illya’s sudden tactility.

“I’m sorry.” Gaby chokes out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Napoleon snorts out a breath and Gaby turns and flees back into the building. They can hear the suite door slam. Illya presses closer. “Still nauseous, Cowboy?”

He’s still speaking Russian. Napoleon swallows. He breaths. And swallows again. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will, Napoleon. I know you will.”

The tone, the warmth of it and the steady surety, makes Napoleon gasp. He turns, eyes snapping up to Illya’s. “Peril?”

Illya stares back, silent, waiting. “Cowboy.”

Napoleon thinks perhaps he’s right. He’ll be fine. He’s got five years left of his sentence with the CIA and if UNCLE lasts and he serves it out with Illya at his back? He’ll live to get his life back.

They’ll both be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone or as the first in a four part series. I'm working out how the group dynamic settles into something cohesive. But as an exploration that is not explicitly shippy, this can stand by itself.


End file.
